HOUSE WITH THE CEDAR SHINGLES: Rising of the Lark
by cuthalion
Summary: Elboron, son of Faramir, returns from serving in the King's army and meets a girl he nearly does not recognize. And when his mother organizes a ball to celebrate his homecoming, events come thick and fast... Ultimate conclusion of my WINTER FIRE series
1. Down at the riverbank

**The Rising of the Lark**  
by _Cúthalion_

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For _Rabidsamfan. (Of course.)  
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Chapter One  
**Down at the riverbank**

_Ithilien, 1447_

The young man reined his horse and took a deep breath.

The air was sweet and warm, the sky clear and as blue as delphinium. The landscape seemed to embrace him, every hill and slope, every woody vale singing _home_, a beloved tune he knew note by note. New Year was close, and this time he would finally spend it in Ithilien again.

He hadn't returned to the palace yet... entering through the gates would mean the usual official welcome, a formal dinner and several even more formal speeches, before he'd finally be able to retire with his parents. There had been enough of this during the last two months in Minas Tirith; the King was the most gracious host possible, and listening to him of all people, praising Elboron's deeds during his service with the army of Gondor, had been immensely flattering. But now all he wanted was to stay unhindered by the boundaries of ceremony, ancestry and duty just a little while longer, and he allowed his tired steed to amble down the winding path that led them both to the Anduin.

Sunlight trickled through the branches, sketching patterns of gold and silver on the deep green patches of moss between the roots of oaks and yew trees. The hooves of his horse stepped soundlessly on the dead leaves of last autumn, making his slow ride as imaginary as a dream. Now he could hear the river, a soft, constant rush at first, but it grew louder and more distinct as Elboron approached the long row of weeping willows that seamed the bank. The horse flexed its ears, neighing softly... it could smell the water, and suddenly Elboron realized that he felt hot and comfortable in his doublet and traveling cloak.

He swung out of the saddle and led the horse to where the river had washed out a small deepening, the bottom white with smooth pebbles. Here his father had taught him how to swim when he was six, and also his mother (at least this was what she had told him, blushing ever so slightly under her golden crown of hair). The water was clear and deep, the branches of the willows nodding in and out of the steady current. He sat down while the horse drank its fill; without thinking, he slipped out of his boots and socks and dug his toes into the damp earth at the rim of the stream. Cool freshness shot through his calves and thighs like a shock; he shuddered and the lay back into the short grass, his eyes fixed on the verdant branches and swelling buds overhead. Ample rainfall during the last weeks had deepened the green of meadows and woods, and Spring had only just begun, but in these lands and on this very day it felt deliciously like summer.

Five years in the harsh climate of Anórien, on the wide, windy plains of Rohan and even six months in the bitter borderland of what had once been the Dark Lord's realm... Emyn Arnen had been nothing but a short, regular respite between long terms of service. Those terms had shaped his body and spirit, chiseling the last remnants of puerility away and sculpting him to the man he was now; but in this moment he couldn't have cared less. Surrounded by the land of his childhood, he turned back to the boy who once had stolen out of the palace to avoid the King's visit.

These woods he knew by heart; he had literally crawled through the underbrush for years, following the scent of woodruff and searching for the spots where clusters of fly agaric glowed bright red under the fern. The Healer of Ithilien had used them to help a servant at the court of Emyn Arnen; Elboron had been fifteen at that time and remembered the case surprisingly well; said servant lost his ability to walk properly within weeks, swaying from side to side like some incorrigible drunkard. Only that the old man never drank anything stronger than apple juice; and after the legs his hands refused obedience. They shook so violently that he was completely unable to eat without assistance. Elboron had always wondered why the Healer insisted to use a toadstool as dangerous as that, but to his amazement the state of the servant – his name was Adeher, Elboron suddenly remembered – improved greatly, though he was never fully able to take up his duties again. The young prince had always admired the Healer, but after this miraculous cure he decided that her abilities were nothing less than legendary.

He spent many hours in her working shed, fascinated by her herb powders and brews, and almost every time he committed some sort of serious mischief, he was sentenced to follow her through the woods in search for plants, as meek as a lamb (and secretly rejoicing)... until his parents decided that his punishment was much more efficient when they made him sit through endless extra lessons in _Quenya _and _Sindarin_. Elboron was forced to admit that those hours worked wonders for his language skills, but he never forgot the house with the cedar shingles on the clearing near the Anduin, and the patience and kindness of the woman with the long, copper red braid and the humorous green eyes.

He was home again, and it would take him less than a ten minute walk through the sun-dappled shades to where the Healer lived. After no one had any idea that he'd returned from Minas Tirith one day earlier than expected, he felt like a free man. The woods dreamed in the midday haze, and nothing could be heard than the stray cry of a blackbird, the sharp pounding of a woodpecker against a trunk in the distance and the slumberous humming of countless bees. _He was completely alone. _

Following a sudden impulse, he threw off cloak and doublet; a moment later shirt, trousers and the last pieces of underwear sailed down onto the growing heap. Finally he was naked; the mild breeze was like a gentle caress on his skin. He made the first, cautious step into the water and briefly clenched his teeth at the bite of coldness against his ankles. He waded deeper, ready to throw himself headfirst into the river.

"One more step and I'll scream! For Eru's sake, has nobody ever taught you any _manners?" _

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He froze on the spot. It was the bright, angry voice of a young woman, coming from somewhere ahead. _Where..._

"Once in a while I dare to take a bath in the river," the voice furiously continued, "I had hoped that the fools of the court are busy filing their stomach right now, and then – _this!" _A short pause. "For the grace of the Valar, do me the favor and _cover _yourself!"

He felt heat rising up his throat and into his face; why on earth had he inherited the telltale complexion of his mother? And his clothes were too far away to reach for them and dress as fast as decorum commanded; he only had the choice between showing the invisible stranger his backside while retrieving them, or using his hands to shield the most... _offending_ parts of his anatomy.

He decided for the former, turned around as fast as possible and lunged out of the water. There was a deafening silence behind him while he grabbed for his garments and awkwardly hopped on one leg like a stork while trying to slip into the trousers. Feeling slightly less exposed, he reached for his shirt... and suddenly he heard the most perplexing sound imaginable: a loud burst of laughter.

"My goodness, Elboron – is that _you?"_

Now his face was burning, and he had to fight the desperate wish to run like a rabbit. His mind clung to five years of warfare and the noble ancestry he had so easily forgotten only minutes before; _did he honestly need to flee from the loose tongue of that cheeky damsel?_ Collecting the shreds of his shattered dignity and his upper body still bare, Elboron turned around. He raised an eyebrow, his voice a perfect imitation of his father's most sublime tone.

"In person, and to your service... whoever you might be," he coolly replied. "Would you care to show yourself? If you still insist to put me to shame, I'd decidedly prefer to see you."

A moment of silence, then there was a movement in the bushes on the other bank of the river. A young woman stepped out of their cover, wrapped into what looked like a huge linen towel.. _Rather a girl than a woman_, he thought, but her body had already lost the badly proportioned clumsiness of adolescence, showing gently rounded hips and very pleasant curves where the breasts were hidden behind the fabric. Her face...

_He knew her. _

He knew that face – the clear, green eyes, the narrow nose and the stubborn chin. She was the spitting image of her mother, the Healer of Ithilien... only that her hair was not copper golden but dark as the feathering of a raven. The last time he had seen this girl, her legs had dangled down from the lowest branch of a tree, her tresses were a tousled bird's nest, the soles of her feet calloused from running shoe-less the whole summer, and her knees had been scabby like those of a tomboy.

He gaped at her, his head spinning with surprise.

"_Lírulin...?" _

"In person." The cheeks of the young woman colored to a very becoming hue of red. "I'm really sorry. I... I didn't recognize you at first. I should have been more polite."

All of a sudden, Elboron felt his face relax in a grin.

"You surprise me greatly," he said, "for the last thing you said to me was that I was a silly, gawkish braggart, and that the straw on my head must have grown right into my brain."

"Oh. You... you..." She blushed even deeper. "That was five years ago!"

"True," he mercilessly continued. "Just before I took up my service on the King's army. I also remember you saying that I'd better try _not _to stumble over my sword, now that Aragorn the King was seriously venturesome enough to actually make me a warrior."

Lírulin gave a gasp of dismay. "I _didn't!" _

"Oh yes, you did. And when I refused to answer, you showered me with unripe apples."

Lírulin took a deep breath – which made the beautifully rounded curves under the fabric rise and fall in a way Elboron simply couldn't help noticing. Now he had to fight the heat in his own cheeks again, and somehow that fact seemed to encourage her. She squared her shoulders, still holding the towel. When she spoke, her courteous composure would have outclassed the skills of any Gondorean lady.

"Your Highness... if you allow me to dress as modesty demands, I will guide you to my mother and serve you an early lunch, to make up for my scandalous behavior in the past." She hesitated. "Unless your presence is needed in the palace, of course."

Elboron smiled.

"Oh, I'm sure my parents will be most happy to welcome me at home, but they have no idea that I have returned - yet. I will gladly accept both, meeting your mother again _and _lunch."

With a rustle of leaves Lírulin vanished behind the bushes once more. Elboron gathered what was left of his clothing and made himself likewise presentable, then called for his horse and led it a short way downstream, to where a narrow, wooden bridge crossed the water. He was certain that he would have to wait quite some time, but once more she surprised him: only a few minutes later he saw her coming along the path. She wore a white blouse and a mossy green skirt, and her dark hair was tamed to a long, thick braid. The ankles under the hem of the skirt were bare... and she had lovely feet.

"No shoes?" _It was entirely too much fun to tease her. _

"Oh... did you want to invite me to a ball? What a delightful idea, Your Highness... I can fetch my silk slippers any time, if you want, but I don't know if I'm wearing the right dress for such a special occasion."

She actually fluttered her eyelashes at him, but the curling of her lips betrayed that she was everything else but serious.

"Lunch will do this time," he said, feeling inexplicably exhilarated. "And would you do me a great favor?"

"Which one?"

He caught a whiff of her personal scent. _Roses? Cornel? _No... it smelled like some kind of herb, green and fresh and the sheer essence of spring.

"Stop calling me Highness."


	2. On the clearing

Chapter Two  
**On The Clearing**

The Healer of Ithilien stood in her kitchen, surrounded by a cloud of delicious smells. Bread was baking in her little oven, the dough opulent with raisins and almonds, and a stew with lamb meat, potatoes and thyme was bubbling over the fire. She looked up, caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window pane and stood still, hands resting on the table, studying the woman she saw.

Twenty-five years had taken their toll: the deep copper of her hair was now slightly faded and interspersed by streaks of silver. Crow's feet surrounded the keen, bright eyes, and lines deepened between her nose and the corners of her mouth whenever she smiled. Still, time had been merciful - the contours of her face and neck were firm, not blurred and slackened by the power of age, and her body was lithe and strong, shaped by long years of roaming the Garden of Gondor and caring for those who dwelt in it.

The vanity that made the ladies of the court in Minas Tirith purchase precious oils and ointments to keep the youth of their cheeks and the silkiness of their hands didn't matter to her. The hands of the Healer were constantly covered by tiny bruises and her palms with callus. Her fingers, though, always remained gentle when they touched an aching body, they were careful and adept when they mixed elixirs and handled mortar and pestle.

She thought of her husband, watching the woman in the glass smile back at her. _Thinking of Damrod always made her smile._

He was in his sixties now and still a part of the rangers, though more as an instructor and tutor these days. Younger men than he went on patrol to the borders of Mordor, and it was years ago that he last had followed the King's call to battle in Harad or Khand. Aragorn had brought Gondor a long time of undisturbed peace, and if there were local uprisings or skirmishes in the South, the means to deal with them were negotiations and clever alliances.

They lived a quiet life, surrounded by friends, favored by Elessar's grace and blessed with a daughter who still made them happy beyond belief. Lírulin was a delightful child, quick-tempered and loving, stubborn and gentle, her looks a felicitous mixture of her parents' best visual attributes. Interesting enough, her roguish qualities had recently softened at the edges, and the moody girl who'd spent the last few years snapping at every male being within reach that was not the King, the Prince of Ithilien or her father gradually developed to a very promising young woman... not that Damrod was anywhere close to accepting that inevitable fact.

There was a sudden movement at the edge of the clearing, and the Healer's gaze sharpened, ignoring her own reflection and watching two people coming out of the woods. Still lost in her thoughts, they looked for her eyes like fairytale figures, arisen from an ancient tale... a young man with clear features and hair like pale gold, tall and handsome, leading a huge steed by the reins, and a beautiful maiden, clad in white and green and with bare feet, gazing up at her escort with an open, eager face. _A lovely couple. _

"Mama! Are you there?"

The healer startled, suddenly bouncing back to reality and recognizing the arrivals. A smile spread on her face, and she pushed both casements wide open.

"Lírulin! And blessed Eru – there's my runaway again!"

She turned and left the kitchen, bolting through the corridor and out of the house. The young man let go of his steed and unceremoniously clasped her into his arms.

"_Noerwen!_ Beautiful as ever – I swear you haven't changed a bit!"

"Liar!" she said fondly, drawing back and studying the grey eyes, the long, straight nose and the strong chin."I'm rapidly turning into a matron, and I'm bearing my fate with dignity. You, however... my goodness, you must have been quite a show for the young ladies of Rohan and Gondor!"

"Yes, especially for the lovely damsels Aeffe and Ceolwen, who couldn't get enough of my presence," the young prince retorted, a certain glint in his eyes. "They constantly climbed all over me while I was in Edoras."

"They did... _what?"_ Lírulin all but gaped at him.

"Climb all over me," Elboron repeated earnestly, "and they also wanted to ride on my shoulders. They were irresistible, I assure you."

"And they constantly asked for sweets, I deem," Noerwen said, laying one arm around her daughter's shoulder. "Those lovely damsels are three years old, and the twins of Éomer's Eldest, Elfwine. The only reason why you don't know them yet is the opinion of their mother that they're far too young to travel."

Lírulin shook her head. "How could I miss that?"

"Because I wasn't present to feed your curiosity," Elboron argued smoothly. "My service in the King's army kept me away from that rewarding task."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, stop talking like one of those popinjays from the court!" Lírulin shot back, more than a little snappish. "I liked you much more half an hour ago when you lunged out of the water to retrieve your clothes."

She caught the flabbergasted expression on her mother's face and blushed bright scarlet. And then she and Elboron hastily spoke at the same time.

"Mother, he _didn't..." _

"Noerwen, I _assure_ you..."

The Healer stood silent, her keen eyes resting alternately on the flaming faces of her daughter and her guest. Finally she took pity on both of them.

"I've known you since you've been a tiny squaller in your cradle," she said, turning to the young prince. "And if I'd ever had any reason to doubt your decency, you wouldn't have spent half of your childhood here."

"Crawling after you through the underbrush, you mean," Elboron retorted, visibly regaining his good spirits.

"And eating most of my cinnamon bread," Noerwen added dryly. "Speaking of which... there is bread in the oven, waiting to be taken out, and the stew in the pot should be edible now. Lírulin, would you please lay the table in the kitchen? And you, Elboron... get your horse into the stable and wash your hands under the pump. We'll have lunch in ten minutes."

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One hour later, Elboron's steed huffed into his oat bag when the stable door opened; a tall, grey-haired man stepped inside, leading his own horse by the reins.

"Ah... who do we have here?" the man asked, his warm, deep voice tinged with a smile. "A fine visitor indeed... let us hope that one of the noble Mearas is not too proud to keep you company, Summerbird." He reached out, stroking the flanks of both horses; the animals watched him with attentive eyes, soft nostrils seeking the man's pockets for some treat. He produced two shriveled apples and they took them with perfect manners. Damrod laughed.

"I'll leave you to yourselves, my lords," he said, bowing with a flourish, "and go to find our guest... but first and foremost my wife, of course." He went out of the stable, carefully closing the door, and then walked across the clearing, steps getting faster as he approached the doorstep of his home.

"Noerwen?"

"Yes, love... we're in the kitchen. And you're too late for lunch!"

"Which you should be well accustomed to by now," he retorted with a grin, entering the kitchen. He was greeted by the Healer who stepped away from the hearth and kissed his cheek. His daughter sat at the table, a steaming bowl with lamb stew in front of her, side by side with a young blonde man he hadn't seen for more than five years. It took Damrod's mind a few moments to blend memory with presence, then he shook off the sudden confusion and bowed for the second time this day.

"Your Highness, what a pleasure." He winked, his gaze resting on the thoroughly grazed plate in front of the prince. "And still as hungry as ever, I see. Is there anything left of the cinnamon bread?"

"I have baked _two _loaves, my heart," Noerwen said. "But stew first. And after Elboron was mannerly enough to wash his hands, I'd like to ask the same favor of you."

Damrod moved towards the door again. "Do you know how to find out if you chose the right wife, your Highness?" he said, reaching for the latch.

"I have no idea – yet," Elboron retorted, his grey eyes glittering with amusement. "But I'm certain it won't do any harm to be prepared, just in case."

"She doesn't have to be a good cook – though that is not a bad thing at all," Damrod hastily added, dodging a playful blow with the linen towel. "But she will always feed you even if you are late, she will have a smile and a kiss for you as soon as you return home... and she will inevitably throw you out of the kitchen if you dare to ask for food with dirty hands and feet." He looked at his wife, and for a long moment the room was very silent, filled with shared memories and unspoken words. Then he went outside, closing the door behind him.

"Well, I doubt your wife will ever have to stand in the kitchen and cook your meal," Noerwen said off-handedly, cutting off the next thick slice of cinnamon bread and slipping it on Elboron's plate.

"I don't know," the young man replied, pulling the butter and the small marmalade pot close. "Still... would you perhaps consider giving away the recipe?"

"I might be persuaded, my dear boy" Noerwen said, filling a new bowl with stew. "As long as your bride meets my approval, that is."

"I'll do whatever I can to satisfy your high requirement," Elboron answered solemnly. He took the spoon, and for a fleeting second his elbow touched that of the young woman beside him. The hearty kitchen smells of stew and bakery vanished, replaced by a fresh scent of herbs and green meadows in the spring rain. Again he touched Lírulin's arm, grazing the thin sleeve of her blouse and warm, smooth skin.

"I'll do whatever I can," he affirmed, digging the spoon into the marmalade.

The young prince left nearly two hours later, waving goodbye to the three people standing in front of the house with the cedar-shingled roof. Noerwen noticed that her daughter followed him with her eyes until he vanished between the trees. But as soon as she noticed that her mother was looking at her, she straightened and gave her a light-hearted smile.

"I'll go and heat the ribwort syrup one last time," she said, "Papa can bring Erion the dozen bottles he ordered last week, as soon as he's up in the residence again."

"Good idea," Noerwen retorted. "Would you care to go with me on the hunt for wild woodruff later?"

Her daughter hesitated, then she shook her head.

"You know, I think I'll sit in the garden with a book... if you don't mind."

"Not the least," her mother said, leaning in and kissing Lírulin's temple. "You were a great help these past days, and you certainly deserve a few hours off."

Together she and Damrod watched the young woman head towards the shed where the Healer stored her herbs, powders and essences.

"She's a good child," Damrod said, pulling his wife close. "The best daughter any father could wish for."

"Very true," Noerwen said, taking the hand that lay on her shoulder. There were two things she seriously doubted in this very moment: that Lírulin really was a child any longer, and that she would read a single line in her book the rest of the afternoon.


	3. On the bench

Chapter Three  
**On the bench**

News that the heir of Faramir had come home from five years of service in the Kings army spread like wildfire. Elboron was rather popular, and when the Prince announced that there would be a ball to celebrate his son's return, half of Ithilien was in joyous uproar.

Mounted messengers were coming in, bringing letters from many noble families who gladly accepted the invitation to the upcoming Spring festivity. Housemaids and servants were sweeping the marble floors and cleaning the windows even more meticulously that usual; busy hands polished golden candelabras and made the silverware in the crockery chamber shine. The huge double wing doors in the ballroom were opened to let sunshine and fresh air in, the lawn was mown to velvety perfection and pavilions were erected. The palace was humming like a beehive, and the kitchen went into a cooking and baking frenzy.

Twenty-seven years of marriage had taught the Princess of Ithilien to handle those preparations with prudence and aplomb. She organized one week of reeling tohuwabohu as precisely as clockwork, and neither the missing delivery of wine from Lebennin nor the nervous breakdown of the cupbearer (a direct consequence of the mishap with the wine) was able to unsettle her.

Nevertheless Éowyn could be found riding down to the Anduin two days before the ball should take place, the reins slack, her mare leisurely trudging along the path that led to the house of the Healer. Dusk colored the gentle hills with shades of blue and grey, and when she rode into the clearing, the air was heavy and sweet with the scent of cedar and sage. She nearly missed the silent figure sitting on the bench near the entrance of the building; only when a soft voice spoke up, the Princess turned her head, and her face lit up with a smile.

"Bolted from the chaos, Your Highness?" the Healer said, her eyes twinkling.

"Stolen away, more likely," Éowyn replied, swinging out of the saddle. She strolled over to the other woman, her steps still resilient. The Shieldmaiden of Rohan had never lost her natural beauty; the laughter lines around her sharp, grey eyes and the grey streaks in her long, blonde hair spoke of experience and wisdom, not of age. She sat down on the bench beside the healer, watching her with more than a hint of irony. "Will you ever learn _not_ to call me 'Your Highness'?"

"I'm not sure," Noerwen mused, stretching her legs. "I fear I will never get used to proper demeanor. Which has its advantages, of course... I may visit Minas Tirith any time, roam the gardens of the Queen and even stuff the pipe of the King once and again, but I'll rarely be invited to one of those breakfasts with the ladies-in-waiting anymore."

"Which is your fault and yours alone," the Princess retorted dryly. "Insulting the Lady Alassiel of Lamedon was not the best way to gain her liking."

"She insulted me first," Noerwen said, completely unruffled. "Asking loudly why 'winding bandages in the houses of healing and then crawling after herbs in the dirt of Ithilien is seemingly enough to be invited into the presence of the Queen' was certainly the worst way to gain _my_ liking. I wonder how Lord Angbor has been able to survive thirty years of marriage with her so far."

"Aragorn didn't call him 'Angbor the Fearless' for naught." Éowyn grinned.*

"Indeed." Noerwen nodded. "If I were _him_, I'd prefer facing an army of undead warriors any time. He's a truly courageous man. And most friendly. While _she_..." She looked down at her hands. "You know, I put on my most harmless face, smiled at her and told her that I'd joyfully wind bandages for the wounded from the battle on the Pelennor fields any time again, instead of wasting my time in the presence of some pompous, foul-mouthed cow."

"I guess she was not amused," Éowyn remarked, her face carefully blank.

"I don't think so." The Healer reached for a jar and a mug in the shadow of the bench. "She looked less than pleased when I rose from my chair, curtseyed to the rest of the ladies and left the garden like a ship under full sail. It was the first time that I really enjoyed a dramatic exit. - You must try my wine; we had not many grapes last year, but plenty of sun." She filled the mug and handed it to the Princess.

Éowyn took a small sip and smiled. "Very good... and a little bit sweeter than I expected."

"I mixed the grapes with blueberries," Noerwen explained, helping herself with the wine. "Makes a fine blend, and if I add some assorted herbs, I even get a very effective strengthening potion."

"Exactly what I need right now." Éowyn took another sip and leaned back against the wall of the house with a contented sigh. "I can easily handle the preparations, and I'm certain I will be able to stand a horde of Gondor's nobility in my home... but the next ostensible bride might be my undoing."

"The next bride?" The Healer shot her a sharp side glance. "Who is expected to marry?"

"Well..." Éowyn emptied the mug with one single gulp. "Elboron, of course."

vvvvv

"_Elboron!" _The Healer stared at the Princess. "Why on earth... how old is he? Twenty-three?"

"Twenty-five, and finally of age now." Éowyn carefully placed her mug on the bench. "His service in the King's army was obviously consuming enough to keep him from having his eye on any young lady he might have met between Edoras and Minas Tirith."

"And the company of his brothers in arms will have kept him occupied, too", Noerwen stated. "But still – how time flies!"

"It does indeed." The Princess let her gaze wander across the still, fragrant gardens. "I must confess things would be much easier, had he come home with the face of some pretty damsel in mind. In that case, we would be reviewing the ancestry of her family now, make the first arrangements and prepare to introduce her to the court... in case that she's not a member of Gondorean nobility."

"That sounds rather exhausting," the Healer said with a half smile. "And not only for that poor girl, but for Elboron, too."

"He is the only heir of the Prince of Ithilien, descendant of the Royal House of Rohan and thirty generations of Stewards to boot," Éowyn said, a shadow darkening her face. "He has to meet certain... expectations."

"What does that mean?" the Healer asked. "Is there a list of eligible and not so eligible maidens, graded for their virtues or flaws?"

Éowyn stared at her, slightly startled. "No. Of course not." She paused. "But for my son deciding whom to marry can't be a matter of the heart alone."

"Hm." The Healer frowned. "How free is he in his choice, then?"

"As free as we can manage without creating a huge scandal, of course", the Princess said, her lips curling to a mirthless smile. "But I can promise you he won't be paired up with some colorless noble maiden he doesn't care for, just for dynastic reasons."

"Good to hear," the Healer retorted dryly. "Just out of curiosity – how would things be handled if he was not the heir of Ithilien but the future King of Rohan instead?"

"Not very different," the Princess said. "My brother was lucky when the woman he fell in love with after the Ring War was not only a spirited beauty but also the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth. The Rohirric ceremonial may not be as complicated, and the noble families not half as fastidious, but certain rules are exactly the same. And I think they will always be... not that I ever put them into question. They were the frame I grew up with."

She smiled at the Healer.

"And don't forget that I was lucky. Living in a house that was mainly populated with men and spending a big part of my time in the stables or on horseback kept me of being locked in a chamber, an embroidery frame in my hand."

"True," Noerwen said, a hint of laughter in her voice. "Which is a shame, of course, considering how many pillows you might have decorated by now."

"Oh, you're obnoxious!" the Princess exclaimed, but she was laughing, too, and the lines of strain Noerwen had clearly seen around her eyes and mouth had vanished almost without a trace.

"I have to leave now, before my chamberlain storms my room with yet another list to be signed and suffers a bout of panic because he's unable to find me there." Éowyn rose from the bench. "Oh – and there was one more reason that brought me down here, even if you made me forget it with the magic of your garden and your wine." She pulled a small, rolled-up parchment out of the pocket of her riding cloak and handed it to the Healer.

Noerwen opened the parchment and skimmed the elegant lines written on it. She took a deep breath and looked up. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am," the Princess said off-handedly. "Though I must admit that it was not my idea. The King and Queen will be here, too, to celebrate the return of my son together with us. And Arwen told me she would like to meet your daughter."

"She'll be easily able to meet her if she pays us a visit," Noerwen said, her tone slightly sharp. "Which she has done many times before. Why the ball? Considering the strict rules of Gondorean etiquette, my daughter is no more acceptable at court than I am."

"The Queen's decisions outweigh any rule she decides to ignore," Éowyn said. "Why are you so surprised about the fact that she chooses to invite the daughter of a woman she cherishes as a trustworthy friend? As do I, by the way."

Noerwen blinked. "Erh... thank you. But still..."

Éowyn looked down at the woman sitting on the bench. She didn't miss her straight, tense posture and the narrow, stubborn line of her mouth. _A trustworthy friend indeed._ Her eyes grew soft.

"Don't fret." She touched the Healer's shoulder. "Your daughter was raised by a woman I hold in high respect. She will be a shining ornament of the ball if you agree to give her the chance. Let Lírulin enjoy herself – and if you need the help of my tailor for a suitable dress, just let me know."

"I will," Noerwen said. "But Ill have to ask Lírulin first, of course."

"Of course." Éowyn replied, walking towards her horse that was grazing on the meadow beside a flower bed with lavender. "Thank you for the wine, and have a good evening!"

Noerwen watched the Princess as she mounted the mare, turned it towards the dark rim of the forest and left, hand raised to a wave of goodbye. Long after horse and rider had vanished between the trees, she still sat on the bench, eyes unseeing, hands fiddling with the parchment that was the reason of her discomfort.

Finally she rose and stretched, giving a sound that was half laughter and half sigh.

"You're a complete fool," she murmured to herself. "Well... at least you should make sure that this particular Cinderella doesn't lose her shoe on the way home."

**Author's Note:**

_Angbor (Ironfist)_ was the Lord of Lamedon. Aragorn went through his land with his army of ghosts while he fought a desperate battle against Corsairs and Haradrim at the Ford of the river Gilrain. When they saw the ghosts approach, Angbor and his men fled in horror, but then the Lord of Lamedon returned to the battlefield – which is why Aragorn called him "Angbor the Fearless". He later marched to Minas Tirith with an army of 4000 men.


	4. In the ballroom

Chapter Four  
**In the ballroom**

"Green, perhaps", the tailor mused, tilting her head and eying the young woman in front of her from head to toe. "Not too dark and not too bright... mossy, I think. A deep, mossy green."

"I don't care which color," Lírulin said, swallowing nervously, "as long as it fits. And you won't have the time to sew a new one anyway. I need it tomorrow."

"A fact I'm perfectly aware of," the tailor retorted. "I brought a dozen robes you might want to have a look at. Siriwen? Come in, lass, and quick!"

A young maidservant wound her way through the narrow door into the sunlit living room, hampered by the huge pile of fabric she was trying to carry without dropping the whole load. Lírulin rushed to her side and with her help the robes landed safely on the table, a rainbow of colors from deepest purple to brightest blue.

The tailor lifted the sleeve of the topmost dress; it was made of dark brown velvet, richly decorated with lace and embroidered flowers.

"No," she said resolutely. "Not your color, and much too warm. We don't want you to faint in the middle of a dance, do we?" A bobbin lace collar appeared between her hands, fastened on a yellow silk bodice. "No, not that one," the tailor remarked, collecting the robe and unceremoniously dropping it on the floor. "You'd look like an oversized canary bird. What about cherry red satin..."

The dress in question was examined, mulled over and rejected.

"Perhaps I should forget the whole matter," Lírulin remarked, frowning. "Honestly, the idea of spending the whole evening between all those lords and ladies scares me. Why can't I pay Queen Arwen a visit when we go to Minas Tirith next time?"

"Good question," Noerwen muttered under her breath. But the she straightened, her lips curling to a confident, encouraging smile. "Just enjoy the ball, child," she said. "And in your case you already know the prince at hand, which is a blessing, after all."

"Here!" It was an exclamation of sheer triumph, coming from the tailor. She pulled a length of shimmering, green silk out of the pile. "_This_ one."

It was a simple dress, with a round neckline. The only adornment was a long, embroidered tendril of ivy leaves in pale silver, running from the left shoulder down to the hem; the long trumpet sleeves were made of a thinner material, translucent like a delicate veil.

"There you are. And now go and try it," the tailor commanded. "With a little luck all I'll have to do is to take it in here and there."

Lírulin gingerly collected the dress and left the room, and the tailor busied herself with rummaging in her bag and pulling out thread, a small tin box with pins and a pair of scissors. Noerwen stood beside the window, gazing outside on the sun-dappled meadow. Again she thought of the ball... an assembly of Gondor's finest ladies, presenting their well-bred, well-dressed daughters to a young man who was expected to make the appropriate choice...or to choose the most harmless predator in a pool full of sharks, more likely. _The poor boy._

And now her daughter was forced to survive in those dangerous waters, too, even if it was for only one night. Noerwen would have a word or two with Arwen, Evenstar of her people or not.

"Mama?"

She turned around... and stilled, exhaling slowly.

Lírulin stood on the doorstep, chewing her lip. She had loosened the braid she usually wore and combed out her hair; it fell in shining waves over shoulders that were nearly bared by the dress she wore. The neckline was deep – not deep enough to be improper, but it showed a delicious hint of the girl's cleavage... _no, not a girl anymore,_ Noerwen thought, _but a woman instead. _Green silk flowed down to her feet, caressing round, firm breasts and gently curved hips on the way, and sun-kissed skin shimmered through the thin fabric of the sleeves. A simple dress indeed, but combined with Lírulin's natural loveliness, it was truly breathtaking.

Noerwen swallowed. "You... you are beautiful."

Lírulin didn't answer, but she smiled, and it was a radiant smile. For a long while the room was silent, but then Siriwen the maidservant gave a watery sniffle, followed by a resolute snort from the tailor.

"Now, Lady Noerwen, if we could turn to the task at hand..."

"Of course," Noerwen said, shaking off the spell. Lírulin positioned herself where she was told, obediently stretching both arms away from her body while the tailor knelt on the wooden floor, mumbling instructions to Siriwen from the corner of her mouth while deciding where the dress still had to be fitted with a few stitches, and marking the spots in question with a multitude of pins. After watching her work for half an hour, Noerwen cleared her throat.

"Would you excuse me? I hope you don't mind, Lírulin, but I must have a short look on the comfrey ointment I started this morning. Besides, your father will return soon; I should take care for our lunch."

"Don'p lep pap beaupy here eap poo mupf," the tailor said, pinheads sticking out between her lips. "or fe preff will pinf in fe mofp _unpleafanp_ plafef."

Lírulin raised one eyebrow, smothering a giggle.

"She's giving you the advice to skip meals until the ball begins, or your dress might be too tight to be comfortable," Noerwen translated, her eyes twinkling. "Most of the young noblewomen will doubtlessly do just that."

"Well, I doubtlessly _won't_," Lírulin said, a determined, steep fold between her brows. "It's only one evening, after all, and luckily enough I'm not bound to turn Elboron's head." She paused, then continued with a tiny sigh. "He won't notice me anyway."

_If he actually does not, he must be as blind as a bat,_ Noerwen thought. But she didn't say it aloud.

vvvvv

The evening of the ball came; Lírulin had taken a bath, and the dress was delivered just in time. With it came a small, wooden box, the lid engraved with Elvish letters and inlaid with mother of pearl. While Lírulin slipped into the dress, Noerwen opened the box and found a small, folded note.

_I don't think your daughter needs much jewelry to fortify her beauty, but this will hopefully give her some joy. _

_A. _

On a bed of black satin lay a flower, a round emerald, surrounded by petals made of freshwater pearls and fastened on a green band of velvet. It was cleverly chosen... the perfect gem for an innocent maiden. Not for the last time Noerwen asked herself why on earth Arwen took such a profound interest in the appearance of her daughter; but this was a question not to be answered right now.

She gave Lírulin enough opportunity to admire the unexpected gift of the Queen while she busied herself with the girl's hair. Instead of creating a complicated crown, she simply took two thick strands from where it framed Lírulin's face; she braided them to simple plaids and fastened them on the back of her head. She knew that some of the more courageous ladies at the court of Gondor had developed the habit to copy the way how their Elven queen wore her hair, and only after her daughter had left with a heartfelt embrace, she suddenly remembered what Legolas had told her some years ago: that Elven warriors tamed their hair just like she had tamed the black tresses of her daughter – before going to battle. –

The residence was brightly lit when Lírulin climbed down from the small chaise. The Princess Éowyn had sent one of the coachmen from Emyn Arnen to pick her up; Malegond, an old, gruff man with a scar that ran down from his left temple to his neck. She knew him practically since she had learned to walk, and she had grown up with his stories of the fight on the Pelennor Fields. The stunned expression on the familiar, grim face when he first saw her in the green dress still warmed her and gave her courage.

He escorted her to the main entrance where she was greeted by Aranel, one of Queen Arwen's court ladies; it was a young, friendly woman Lírulin already knew, and chosen on purpose, too. When Lírulin visited Minas Tirith three years ago, she had spent many hours teaching her how to embroider a pillow case. Lírulin's hands were nimble and confident when it came to medicine powders and healing draughts, but she was able to wreak havoc with an innocent piece of fabric whenever she touched needle and thread. Under the patient tutelage of Aranel she had actually managed something rather presentable, though, and she had given it to her mother for her fiftieth birthday. And now the presence of her kind teacher was enough to make her feel protected and halfway self-secure when she finally reached the door to the ballroom.

It was an impressive scene... young noblewomen in festive gowns as colorful and manifold as a flower garden in full bloom, circling around splendidly clad courtiers in the slow, calculated steps of a ceremonial dance. The air was filled with the music of flutes, violins and lutes, and heavy with the scent of mixed perfumes. At the far end of the hall, four golden chairs had been lined up on a dais; she saw Prince Faramir and Princess Éowyn, and beside them Aragorn and Arwen. The sheer presence of such a number of noble folk would have made the knees of an extremely bold person go weak, and for a short, dizzying moment Lírulin felt the overwhelming urge to turn tail and _run. _

She paled and involuntary shied back, but then a warm hand touched her shoulder.

"Don't be afraid," Aranel said. "You are favored by a Queen and a Princess, and the Heir of Ithilien is your childhood friend. You have nothing to fear. And besides..." She came a little closer, her voice conspiratorial. "He deserves a kind face among all those gaudy beauties on the hunt for his hand, does he not?"

As if the mentioning of Elboron had worked like a spell, Lírulin suddenly spied him, dancing close to the dais. He held the hand of a pretty maiden dressed in pale pink and gold. Her blonde hair was an elaborately arranged mass of curls, adorned with rosebuds. They made a beautiful couple, and Elboron's posture was flawless, but Lírulin, eyes sharpened by her own unease, could see his tension and felt an unexpected, short sting of pity.

"I guess you are right," she said slowly and watched Aranel open one of the great double wing doors to beckon a servant close. She whispered into his ear, and the man wound his way through dancers and musicians until he had reached the dais. He bowed before the Queen who looked up and shot a searching gaze towards the other end of the room. Now the dance was over; Elboron led the maiden back to her place. Lírulin spied an elder man and beside him a woman with the same blonde curls as the girl; her parents, probably. The servant met Elboron in the middle of the ballroom as he walked in the direction of the dais and bowed for the second time. Suddenly the face of the young prince lit up, and the very next moment he came with fast steps towards the door.

_Towards her._

With sudden clarity she understood that this was her last chance to back away. The young man approaching was not the lanky youth she had mercilessly teased while sitting barefoot in a tree...not even the stranger she had found stark naked at the riverbank, only three days ago. He was a prince, the Heir of Ithilien, robed in festive silk and velvet, and his face was that of a man.

And then he was there, and he opened the door himself. She stepped over the threshold into the ballroom and he took her hand.

"So you actually _do _have the right dress for the occasion," he softly remarked, his eyes glittering with secret laughter. She remembered their good-natured bickering on their way to her mother's house, and her face relaxed. "Though 'the right dress' seems to be the understatement of the year. You look... unbelievable."

She gave him a weak smile. "Your mother's tailor chose the dress; you'd better praise her. Besides, it is still just _me."_

"And thank Eru for that," he remarked dryly. "All those beauties are incredibly polite, stunningly pretty and so incredibly well-behaved that they bore me to death. Finding me a bride should be more pleasant, for heaven's sake."

She didn't know what to say, so she kept her silence, but pressed his fingers a little more tightly.

"Dance with me, _wina min,"_ he said. "Mother promised me at least half a dozen Rohirric dances to be played this evening; we might be lucky."

And lucky they were; the musicians began a lively tune, and the dance floor emptied considerably. Nowadays, Gondorean ladies were used to the melodies the Princess of Ithilien had brought from her barbarian homeland up north, but the fast, coltish dance steps were still considered a bit... _scandalous. _And so more than half of the noble guests stood in unmoving disbelief and watched as the Heir of Ithilien spun a radiantly beautiful young woman around in a jolly gallop, flaxen blond and black hair mingling every time she whirled back into his arms.

vvvvv

Lírulin enjoyed the ball, just as her mother had told her to do. She embraced the feast like a child given an unexpected reward, and never thought anyone might begrudge her the pleasure she felt. Growing up under the loving care of her parents hadn't prepared her for certain pitfalls of jealousy and enviousness... and when the blow came, it hit her without forewarning.

The evening passed by with music and laughter, the sky darkened slowly from bright to dark blue as the sun went down; pastries, cakes, fruits and salads, cooled wine and spicy punch were served in the pavilions outside on the lawn. The guests strolled along the paths in the gardens, talking and nibbling small treats. Lírulin had escaped her latest admirer; she sat down in one of the pavilions, hidden behind a pillar that was looped over with flowers and ivy. For a moment, she felt unobserved and used the chance to slip out of her thin, silken shoes. Elborons' open attention had earned her the regard of many a courtier who would normally have ignored her; she could barely count how many of them had led her on the dance floor, and though she was far from being exhausted, her feet were beginning to hurt. And so she wiggled her toes, thankful for a chance to rest. She picked slices of peach and pears from a plate on her knees.

"... I can only hope you brought some wine. I am _parched,_ and I have really no idea why mother insisted on dragging me here. Who cares for a prince who gives his best attention to some unknown damsel no one has ever heard of?"

Lírulin froze and nearly dropped the plate. She carefully placed it on the floor, leaned forward on her chair and peeked around the pillar. To her surprise and dismay, she discovered the maiden Elboron had first danced with while she'd waited outside of the ballroom. The young lady was surrounded by a small entourage of other girls, and she drank from a glass one of her companions handed her. She was lovely, her skin delicate as a rose petal, but her face was that of a spoiled child bored by a toy... resentful and discontent.

"Who _is _that, anyway?" she asked, abandoning the glass and fanning herself with a delicate handkerchief. "She appears out of nowhere, and suddenly the whole court seems to turn around her. Rumor goes that she was invited by the Queen – but if the bride has already been chosen, why do they make such a charade?"

_The bride?_ Lírulin sank back into the chair, her head spinning. The sweet taste of peach in her mouth suddenly turned bitter.

"I can't imagine that she is the bride," one of the other girls said, audibly trying to becalm the young lady. "I have heard that she is the daughter of a woman the Princess Éowyn favors... which would make the invitation a friendly gesture, nothing more."

"Yes," another one added, eager to please. "The girl's mother is reportedly the Healer of Ithilien... married to one of Prince Faramir's rangers, and in the service of the princely family for years. As far as I could find out, her name is Noerwen."

"_Noerwen?"_ The reaction was as sharp as a whiplash. "My mother told me about her! They met at a breakfast for the ladies-in-waiting, at the court in Minas Tirith, and Noerwen insulted her in such a rude manner that my mother was forced to leave immediately."

Lírulin flinched; her hands were trembling. She had heard about that fateful encounter. Her parents had discussed it without knowing that she was in the next room, and at that time the story had seemed almost comical to her. But now she felt no urge to laugh; this had to be the daughter of Lord Angbor of Lamedon and his wife Alassiel... _the woman her mother had called a pompous, foul-mouthed cow_. The next words she heard surpassed even her worst misgivings.

"Wait..." The voice of Lord Angbor's daughter was soft, but still angry. "This is Prince Elboron's home country, and he must know that girl from childhood. But she is no child any longer, and neither is he."

"You don't think that they..." It was the mixture of a giggle and a shocked gasp.

"Why not?" The young lady lowered her voice; Lírulin suddenly understood that she – despite her haughty outrage – enjoyed a good piece of juicy slander. "Imagine that... he's been rolling with her in the hay before he went to serve in the King's army. Now he comes home, ostensibly searching for a bride among the finest offspring of Gondor, and all he can think of is to smuggle his little strumpet into the palace, to make a mockery of us all!"

Lírulin came stumbling to her feet; _how could she flee this place without being discovered?_ Suddenly a strong gust of wind billowed the canvas wall beside her. It was astonishingly cold and carried the smell of rain. Lírulin heard startled voices and fast steps as the guests hurried towards the safety of the palace, but she didn't dare to move. Minutes passed agonizingly slow, and when she peeked around the pillar for the second time, the pavilion was empty.

She stood between bare tables and chairs, her face white as chalk. She couldn't return to the feast... she felt completely unable to face anyone, and much less Elboron. The evil assumptions she had just overheard were still ringing in her ears. Her usual courage and confidence were shattered, and she thought she might die of shame.

She didn't think of Malegond and his chaise, not about telling anybody that she was leaving, and why. She simply slipped out of the pavilion, the silken shoes still in her hand, and met a changed world. The blue evening sky had darkened to a stormy black; clouds came in from the mountains, obscuring the stars, and when she tilted her head back, the first heavy drops fell on her face.

She didn't care. She knew every rock and stone of this landscape, and like a sick and weary child all she could think of was to get home and find her mother. She passed the lawn while the ground grew slick under her feet, her skirt got caught and ripped in the iron gate that separated Éowyn's gardens from the woods and still she ran, turning blindly towards the only shelter she could think of. Minutes later she vanished under the shadow of the trees.

_Wina min_ – Rohirric for "my friend"


	5. In Éowyn's chamber

Chapter Five  
**In Éowyn's chamber**

It was Malegond who reported that Lírulin was missing; Noerwen had told him to bring her daughter home at midnight, and he'd waited for her half an hour before he asked a servant to tell Éowyn that the girl had not shown up.

Aranel was summoned, but all she could contribute was the fact that she had seen Lírulin the last time when the food was served and the guests swarmed the pavilions. Many courtiers had danced with her or talked to her, but not all of them could still be found in the residence; those who were had no idea where the young, beautiful maiden in the green dress might be. And when it became clear that Lírulin had vanished without a trace, most of the noble families invited to stay and spend the night in Emyn Arnen had already retreated into their rooms. With a heavy heart, Éowyn decided to notify her husband and send one of her ladies-in-waiting to Aragorn and Arwen; after all, it had been the idea of the Queen to invite Lírulin to the ball, and she had to know about this unfortunate development. Around the residence, the storm was still raging with terrifying force, and waterfalls of rain gushed down the hills. Éowyn stood at the window, staring outside without really seeing anything. She felt ill at ease – and increasingly guilty. _If the girl got lost in the woods..._

This was the moment when Elboron entered the private chamber of the princess. He had changed his festive robes for something simpler and more comfortable, but when Éowyns eyes met those of her son, his gaze was at least as troubled as the skies outside.

"Father just told me that Lírulin is lost, and now he sends the servants all over the place, to turn every stone. What happened?" he demanded, a deep fold between his brows. "How can it be that a guest you personally invited – and a guest of the Queen of Gondor! - is missing? Where can she be?"

"I have no idea," Éowyn replied with a sigh. "So far, I don't know when exactly she left, let alone why." She hesitated. "Tell me, did she seem to you in any... _discomfort..._ this evening?"

Elboron stared at her, his frown deepening. "Not as long as we were together! You saw us dance – do you really think _that _made her uncomfortable?"

Éowyn studied him thoughtfully. "Certainly not," she finally said. "But watching you both together, in such visible ease...it might have given others the discomfort she didn't feel."

"Do you think so?" Elboron gave back, his tone slightly sharp. "Perhaps we should put it plain and clear: they may have felt open malevolence, especially those hoping for a gainful match."

He shook his head. Éowyn noticed the tension of his jaw; suddenly it struck her that Elboron was more deeply changed than she had expected him to be. She no longer saw the charming youth she'd raised and sent away five years ago – life as a warrior in Aragorn's army had sharpened his edges, so to speak, and the fact that he'd readily yielded to the dynastic plans she followed with the ball did not mean that he was willing to be manipulated. His next words confirmed her impression.

"When I met Lírulin this evening", he slowly said, "all _I _felt was gratitude – that you and the Queen had obviously decided to make this task easier for me, by inviting a companion of my childhood. But, mother..."

He stepped close to her, and they stood eye in eye.

"... what did your _other_ guests see, all those noble families, gathered here for the feast of my return? All those young ladies who were waiting for me to make my choice? I will tell you. They saw me, dancing with a lovely woman, enjoying her company to the fullest... and returning to her whenever I saw the chance."

There was a soft knock at the door. Éowyn went to open it and found the King and Queen of Gondor on her threshold. They were both still fully dressed, their faces serious.

"You have lost a guest?" Aragorn asked. "Noerwen's daughter?"

"Indeed," Éowyn admitted. "Elboron, would you please pull that chair over there closer to the fireplace? Arwen, take a seat."

Elboron did as he was told, and Arwen sank into the chair with palpable relief. She was mere weeks away from giving birth to her fourth child, and though the baby in her rounded womb didn't lessen her radiant beauty, it certainly made her cumbersome and tired at times. Aragorn stood close to her, his hand gently stroking her shoulder.

"How much do we know?" he asked.

Éowyn opened her mouth to answer, but the same moment there was another knock at the door. "Come in!" she called, trying to stay calm.

It was a servant; his clothes were drenched, and he left a trail of drops on the polished wooden floor. He bowed to her. "Your Highness..." Then he noticed the King and Queen, and suddenly he seemed to be at a loss for words. Elboron – who saw that the man was simply overawed by such a sheer amount of lordly presence – managed to give him a reassuring smile. "Do you have any news for us?"

The man pulled himself together. "Your Highness, I am one of those who removed the pavilions after the meal... which is why I'm so dripping wet, beg your pardon. We were afraid that the storm might rip them to pieces." He took something out of his shirt pocket. "When I collected the last awnings, one of them was blown away and wrapped itself around the post of the gate that leads out of the garden. I went to get it back and found this on the ground, just beside the gate."

He handed Elboron a scrap of cloth... fine, green silk, obviously from the hem of a dress, wrapped around something. He freed the item within and stared down at it as it lay glittering on his palm. A flower with petals of freshwater pearls, an emerald in the middle, held by a narrow velvet band. The silver clasp was lost.

"Lírulin wore this," he softly said, turning his gaze to the Queen. "She said you sent it to her as a gift."

"Yes, I did," the Queen confirmed, "after the tailor told me which dress she had chosen for her." She looked at the servant. "That gate is where exactly?"

"On the western side of the garden," the servant replied. "From there a narrow path leads into the woods, and if you follow it for two miles, you reach the river."

"Thank you," Éowyn said. "Change your clothes before you catch a cold, and then go to the kitchens for something hot to drink. You were a great help."

The servant bowed for the third time, turned around and vanished, softly closing the door behind him. For a moment, the room was silent, then it was Elboron who spoke.

"We have to go after her," he stated. "I don't dare to imagine what might happen to her in that storm." He made a step towards the door. "If you excuse me..."

"Not so fast," the King interrupted him before Éowyn could even open her mouth. His voice was gentle, but it carried an unmistakeable hint of steel, and when the young prince tried to protest, he raised one hand. "Even if Lírulin left the garden through that gate – and in haste, as it seems, or she wouldn't have ripped her dress and lost that necklace – she certainly knows the way home. That doesn't mean there should be no search party, but reason demands that we send someone to the house of the Healer first, to find out if she safely got there."

"Yes," Elboron grimly added, "and to inform her parents in case that she did _not_. Damrod will doubtlessly want to be a part of that search party."

"I think so, too," Aragorn retorted with a sigh. "but still: Lírulin has grown up here, and she knows this land as well as any of Faramir's rangers. It bothers me much more what Noerwen will have to say about the whole matter."

"She will be upset," the young prince said, staring down at the delicate flower again. "She will ask how it could happen that she left her daughter under our protection, only to find out that we were obviously careless enough to betray her confidence."

He shot his sovereign a piercing gaze.

"Which is absolutely _true. _And this is why I will be one of the messengers to tell Noerwen what happened. One of us has to apologize, and I think it should be me._"_

Aragorn looked back calmly and with quiet respect.

"Do that," he said, "and tell Noerwen I will pay her a visit in the morning."

Éowyn felt the fierce urge to object, but her son's face told her that his decision could not be swayed. "Be careful," was all she finally said.

Elboron bowed before the King and Queen, stepped beside his mother and kissed her cheek. Then he turned away and left the room with fast steps.

vvvvv

Elboron started out with one of the younger rangers, Gideher. He knew Lírulin since she'd merely been a toddler, and Damrod was a legendary figure for him, same as for all those he had been training for years. It took not much persuasiveness to convince him that they should not take the main road down to the river but the shortcut Lírulin had probably chosen. Thus they would at least be able to look out for the missing girl while they rode down to the Healer's house... but the matter turned out to be much more difficult than expected.

The path the servant had mentioned wasn't a path any longer. It had turned into a rapid, loamy river that shot down the hill, carrying soil and stones with its current and tearing a wide aisle into the underbrush. Roots of oaks and beeches that had been growing there for decades were washed free. Elborons mare and Gideher's gelding stumbled on wet rocks and muddy earth, and after a few minutes both men realized that it was completely impossible to to get down to the river on horseback. They dismounted and continued their way step by careful step, dodging fallen trees and wading through ankle-deep puddles. It took them more than twice the time they normally needed to reach a narrow plateau at half height of the slope, where the trees opened to a clearing.

They rain didn't fall any longer, and far above them Elboron saw the moon appear between clouds that raced the sky like a herd of galloping horses. _Sounds like something Uncle Éomer might say,_ he thought, stifling a small grin.

"You know that the hill will be rather steep from here," he said, turning to Gideher. "We'll better be careful; I'd like to reach the Healer's house in one piece."

"Only to be torn apart once more, as soon as Noerwen learns that something unpleasant might have happened to her daughter," the other man gave back, flashing him a crooked smile.

They set out again, heading down slowly along the stony side of a deep furrow; water from the rain-sodden path and countless swollen rivulets rushed through it towards the plain with its small patches of grassland and the long line of weeping willows bordering the riverbank. From there it was a short walk of a few minutes to reach the house of Noerwen and Damrod – under normal circumstances. Judging after what happened to the path, Elboron didn't dare any foretelling when it came to the mighty waters of the Anduin.

Suddenly their way was barred by a huge jumble of branches and root balls directly ahead. Close to the edge of the woods, two unsound trees had lost the fight against the storm, their gnarled trunks leaning against each other and forming a lopsided triangle. Elboron held the reins of his steed more firmly, preparing to guide it around the dangerous obstacle, when he suddenly heard a desperate voice from somewhere in the middle of all those tangled leaves and twigs.

"Help! For Eru's sake, if there is anybody out there, _help me!" _

He froze on the spot. Gideher bumped into him from behind and he swallowed a curse. _"Shhhhh!_ - Lírulin? Is that you?"

"_Elboron?_ Oh... thank goodness, I thought nobody would ever find me!"

His head was spinning with relief. He handed the reins to Gideher, got down on his knees and frantically tried to shove the branches aside. A few moments of struggle and several scratches on his arms later a pale face appeared out of the wet darkness, and cold fingers closed around his hand.

"I was on the way to your mother's house, together with Gideher. We were very worried about you. Are you hurt?" he anxiously asked.

"No, I'm not – aside from an ankle that feels as if it might be sprained," Lírulin answered; her voice was surprisingly firm. "But those trees tilted and fell when I passed them by, and now I'm trapped. If I move too much, the trunks might collapse completely, and in that case I'll probably be crushed."

Those were highly unwelcome news. "I take it that you can't crawl out?"

"If I could, I would long have done so," she snapped. "And the fact that my skirt got caught in one of the root balls doesn't really help. I already made a few attempts to free the fabric, but each time I try, the trunks slip a little bit more." She cleared her throat, and he found that he gently stroked her wrist, as if trying to soothe a panicking foal. "I'm sorry," she added belatedly, sounding ashamed.

"Never mind," he said. "What you need is a knife. I'll give you mine, and you can cut the skirt off. And when Gideher and I keep the branches apart afterwards, you have a chance to escape."

"It is certainly worth a try," she said, and he felt a sudden, honest admiration of her quiet fortitude. He fumbled the dagger from his belt and pressed it, pommel first, into her outstretched hand. The slim weapon vanished in the darkness, and for a long moment all he could hear was his own breath. Then:

"I'm free! Do you really think you can get me out?"

"We'll do our best." Elboron more felt than saw Gideher kneel down beside him, and together they cut thin twigs off and cautiously shoved thick branches aside. It was laborious work, and Elboron had to move his upper body deeper and deeper into the wooden labyrinth to make way for the prisoner waiting in her narrow cave. Suddenly there was a deep, creaky groan above his head, followed by a horrible scrunching sound.

"Back! _Go back!"_ he heard Lírulin scream directly in front of him, but to his dismay he realized that he was stuck. Behind him one of the horse gave a shrill neigh. He made a last, desperate move to avoid the inevitable, but the very next second something crashed against the back of his head, and the world grew black.


	6. In the Healer's house

Chapter Six  
**In the Healer's house**

It was far past midnight, but the candles were still burning in the house with the cedar shingles. Noerwen paced to and fro in the living room, wrapped in a warm shawl; Damrod stood at the window, peeking out into the night. The rain had stopped a while ago, and now the storm had finally died down, too.

But Lírulin had not returned.

"I knew I should have kept her from going to the ball," the Healer said, her face pale and tired. During the last two hours they had by turns reassured each other, assuming that their daughter was staying overnight in the palace and that a messenger would arrive any time to give them notice. But no one came. Without really knowing that something was amiss, they tried to stay calm while at the same time developing a desperate certitude that something unpleasant had happened to their only child.

Damrod opened the window. A fresh, damp breeze made the curtains flutter and cooled his face. Deep in his heart he knew that he had to do something. He was far too overstrung to sleep and much too uneasy to becalm Noerwen, and he had just made the decision to leave for the residence when he heard the hushed sound of hooves on the clearing. A dark figure nearly fell out of the saddle directly in front of the entrance to the house, and the next thing he heard was the hammering of fists against the door.

Noerwen was down the steps before he could even move; he followed her as fast as he could. When he reached the small vestibule, he was confronted with a distraught young man, hair and clothing soaked, boots caked with mud. A bloody, red scratch ran down his cheek. He was speaking breathlessly and so fast that the words came out in a frantic jumble. Damrod caught _"Lírulin" _and _"in the storm"_ and _"fallen tree"_, and his blood ran cold.

"Is she alive?" he sharply asked, heartbeat in his mouth.

"Yes, she is," the young man replied, his voice tense, "and she told me that she only sprained her ankle, but Elboron seems to be badly hurt."

"_Elboron? _What has Elboron to do with this?"

"Come with me," Noerwen resolutely instructed the young man, guiding him towards the kitchen and lighting a few candelabras on the way. The hearth fire was already banked for the night, but half a pot of tea still sat on the iron plate above. Within one or two minutes their exhausted guest sat on a stool, a mug of steaming tea between his hands. _Gideher, _Damrod suddenly remembered the man's name. Noerwen leaned over him, cleaning the scratch with a piece of gauze and a drop of alcohol; faced with someone who needed her help, she was able to return to her usual controlled and capable self.

Warmed by the drink and slightly relaxed by the quiet atmosphere of the kitchen, Gideher was finally composed enough to tell his story in comprehensible order. Damrod and Noerwen listened with increasing fright, but they were wise enough to be silent and let him finish the recollection of his desperate adventure.

"And then one of the trees collapsed," he finally concluded. "Lírulin tried to warn Elboron, but he couldn't move back or forth. She says that he wasn't hit by the trunk, only by a thick branch... but the trunk pins him to the ground now, and she isn't sure of anything is broken." He swallowed. "When I left, he was unconscious."

"Drink you tea," Noerwen said, "and then you'll guide me to that tree. We'll take my medicine bag, a few torches and blankets with us; Lírulin is skilled enough to attend to Elboron with a bit of help, and we can at least keep them both warm."

She turned to her husband.

"Damrod, you'll leave for the residence at once, but you better take the main road, not the path: one accident is enough. Éowyn and Aragorn are doubtlessly waiting for reassuring news from our house." Her voice was grim. "We'll have to disappoint them, I fear... but at least we can perhaps forestall further damage now ." -

It took Noerwen and Gideher fifteen minutes to reach the fallen trees; Lírulin greeted them with boundless relief. Elboron had meanwhile come back to himself. He was responsive, but his head hurt terribly and just before they arrived, he had – to his great embarrassment – thrown up all over the tattered skirt of Lírulin's green dress.

At the same time Damrod made enough of a row at the gates of Emyn Arnen to alarm half a dozen guards. They all knew him, of course, and he was immediately admitted to the rooms of the King. Shortly after, a long row of rangers and servants with torches and axes wound their way down the rain-soaked hill and into the woods. Aragorn, Faramir and Damrod went with the rescue party.

It was Faramir who swung the axe and hewed off the fallen trunk; Aragorn was one of the five men who lifted it from Elboron's body, and he walked beside the litter, his finger on the pulse of the prince when they brought him down to Healer's house. Behind them came Damrod, carrying his daughter, wrapped in a dry, warm blanket. When they arrived, Noerwen and Erion, the Healer of Emyn Arnen, were already waiting for them, and soon both the wounded Prince and Lírulin were cared for, clean and fast asleep, one in the guest chamber, the other one in her own bed.

vvvvv

The next day dawned bright and clear, clouds and storm gone. The Prince of Ithilien and the King returned to the residence, leaving Erion behind to watch over Elboron's slumber and health. In the early afternoon, Lírulin woke up, was properly fed and took a long bath. Now it was finally her turn to tell her mother what had happened on the ball, and Noerwen listened patiently until the whole sad story had come out. She held the girl in her arms, soothing her when the belated shock about what she had gone through made her sob and shake.

Lírulin went back to bed after sunset, and Noerwen immediately made her way up to Emyn Arnen, politely but firmly demanding to see the Princess of Ithilien and the Queen. It was an elaborate conversation, and rather private; when Noerwen came home again, she entered the house with a pleased glint in her eyes and a certain victorious air.

"You look as if you fought a battle, love," Damrod said when his wife sat down in the kitchen. He reached for the box with the dried tea leaves on the shelf, but then decided otherwise and searched the cupboard until he had found a bottle with red wine from Lebennin. They had kept it for a special occasion, and he thought that this was as good a moment to open it as any.

"I did, in a way," Noerwen said, taking a small sip. "You know, I had to inform the Queen that one of her personal guests – our daughter – was defamed by one of those so-called noble women... a spoiled girl who took offense at the fact that a certain prince who was reportedly looking for a bride among his equals, chose to spend half the evening dancing with the daughter of a simple Healer."

Damrod frowned. "Did that girl confront her face to face?"

"Of course not." Noerwen gave a snort of disdain. "Instead she gathered her entourage around her and cooked up an adventurous theory: she claimed that Elboron had already taken Lírulin for his rustic paramour before he went to service in Aragorn's army, and that he – after his return – tried to smuggle her into the palace."

Damrod half rose from his chair, his eyes shooting thunderbolts. "Is that minx out of her wits? When Elboron left, Lírulin was only fourteen! She was a _child,_ for Eru's sake!"

"I know," Noerwen retorted, touching his arm; slowly he sat down again. "I guess said young lady didn't bother to take a closer look... but I'm not very surprised. She's the daughter of Lady Alassiel, and as soon as she found out that Lírulin is _my _child, she obviously lost the ability – and the will – to use her brain."

"Like mother, like daughter," Damrod stated, a dangerous light in his eyes. "I don't doubt that Arwen will be able to put things in order, but I'd still _love_ to have a word with both of them."

"Me, too," Noerwen admitted, "but I promised the Queen and the Princess that we won't interfere. So far all that happened was a ugly little incident; it might well develop to a fully fledged scandal."

"Which would not be _our_ fault at all," Damrod growled. "It was Arwen's idea to invite our daughter, and it was _she _who threw her to the wolves."

"Yes, but I believe her that she didn't do this on purpose," Noerwen said. "I've come to think that she honestly wanted to do Elboron a favor... and when she saw how close and familiar they became during the ball, she might have seen it as a hint of fate."

"They became close?" Damrod asked, frowning again.

Noerwen's face was carefully blank. "Éowyn told me that many of the courtiers who watched them dance and talk that evening came to the conclusion that the Heir of Ithilien had already chosen his bride."

Damrod took a deep breath. "But... they can't... do you really think he is in love with her?" He stared at his wife.

"I think they feel very much attracted to each other," Noerwen said slowly. "And why not? It is a most natural thing, given the fact that they practically grew up together, and that they have a lot in common. Elboron has become a very handsome man, and a responsible one to boot; it was his decision that he should be the messenger to tell us that our daughter was missing. He chose the dangerous path through the woods on purpose because he hoped to find Lírulin, and he got himself into serious danger while trying to rescue her."

She smiled weakly.

"Enough valor to impress a young maiden... and don't forget, she is grown up, too. Your daughter is a beautiful woman now, my love."

"I know," Damrod said, torn between pride and a sharp sense of loss.

"And there's nothing to fear or to decide – yet," Noerwen said, taking his hand and gently kissing the palm. "Perhaps the whole thing is nothing more than a passing enchantment. But if – and only if – it is more, Lírulin won't be rejected. Custom and tradition may demand otherwise, but Arwen and Éowyn consider her as an acceptable match, and it is _their _word that counts in the end."

Damrod shook his head. "Can you imagine our tomboy daughter following the strict rules of the protocol?"

"Not really," Noerwen answered with a sigh. "But whatever happens... all we can do now is to wait and let them make their own choices." She smiled at her husband. "You know what? I trust in Lírulin's heart – and in Elboron's, too."

vvvvv

The next forenoon was nearly over when Elboron used an unwatched moment to slip out of his bed and into his clothes.

He was in a much better state, and Erion had already returned to the residence – a clear sign that his noble patient was on the mend. Elboron's head didn't hurt any longer – at least not much – and he was hungry. All he had been served since his fateful accident was vegetable broth and dry bread, and he felt the growing urge to plunder Noerwen's pantry.

But first he wanted to get out of the house; so he sneaked down the stairs, flinching at each creaking step. He remained unseen - the door to the kitchen was closed, and he could hear Noerwen sing while kneading fresh dough. Damrod had left early in the morning, which diminished the danger to get caught.

Then he was outside, breathing the fresh, mild air with something close to jubilation. He knew that he had been incredibly lucky; the tree that might have slain him had only provided him with a mild concussion and a huge bump on the back of his head. He was alive, and life had never felt any better.

He looked around over the garden - and spied a regular trace of footprints, darkening the dew-silvered grass that still lay in the shadow. When he followed it with his eyes, he caught a short glimpse on a fluttering skirt and a long, black braid. The door to the herb shed closed with a soft click. Five years of vigilance and warfare had taught him that a man should better use every strategic chance he was given; he cast a cautious look black over his shoulder, crossed the lawn with a few long steps and slipped into the shed, too, fervently hoping that Noerwen had missed his maneuver.

Compared to the brightness outside, the light in the shed was rather dim. Elboron saw the familiar shelves and cupboards, filled with bottles and jars. He smiled at the scent he remembered from countless visits of earlier years... a whiff of dried healing powders, mixed with the strong aroma of fresh herbs and a hint of woodsmoke. The brightest spot was Noerwen's working place, a big table with a neatly scrubbed wooden top. Damrod had built it for her nearly two decades ago, and this was where she kept her sharp knifes in an extra drawer, and where her mortar and pestle sat.

Now Lírulin stood in front of that table, dress covered with one of her mother's aprons. She filled a greenish salve into a row of skillets made of dark glass, humming softly under her breath.

He watched her hands, strangely spellbound by the regular, adept movement of her fingers. Sunbeams came through the window and made her hair shine like polished jet. Her face was focused and relaxed at the same time, immersed as she was in her work. Suddenly he didn't feel like an old friend and childhood companion, but like an intruder bound to disturb her peace.

Then Lírulin raised her head and her eyes lit up when she discovered him in his dim corner beside the door.

"_Elboron!_ How are you?" The open joy on her face gave way to a sudden concern. "What are you doing here? Does my mother know that you are out of bed?"

"She has no idea," he blithely replied. "I just weaseled out of the house, in search for some fresh air."

Lírulin closed the last skillet with a cork and sealed it with a drop of warm wax from a pot simmering beside the table on a small stove. Then she came over to him.

"Turn around," she commanded, "I want to have a look at that bump."

Elboron did as he was told. Suddenly he felt her hands, shoving his hair out of the way and making him shiver ever so slightly. Cool fingertips touched the sensitive spot where the branch had hit his neck. He winced, and she gave a soothing little sound in the back of her throat. The smell of beeswax filled his nostrils, together with something fresh and tart he couldn't quite identify.

"What is that?"he asked, closing his eyes.

"Comfrey salve," she said. "Good against wounds that refuse to heal." The fingertips were removed and came back, applying something cool and smooth on the sore skin. He shivered again, but waited patiently until she stepped back before he turned around.

She smiled up at him. He remembered how lovely she had looked in that dress on the ball, but now he realized that her beauty didn't need precious robes and jewelry to enchant him. Without thinking, he took her hands, and she made no attempt to pull away. He only noticed that her breath went a little faster, but otherwise she remained completely calm.

"I have already apologized to your parents," he gently said, "and now I would like to apologize to you. I singled you out from the crowd by dancing with you and spending as much time with you as possible. My carelessness caused jealousy and heartbreak. I brought you in danger, and I'm deeply sorry that you were hurt. It was entirely my fault, and I will do anything to make amends."

Her gaze sharpened, and he felt her fingers twitch in his grip.

"Do you regret that you – how did you put it - ,singled me out'?" she asked.

"Not for one moment," he replied.

The words seemed to dance between them, as golden as the small dust moths in the still air. They stood very close now, and suddenly he felt the overwhelming urge to kiss her. He leaned in, and to his surprised delight their lips met midway as she raised herself on tiptoes. It was a very short contact, but sweet and intense enough to make every fiber of his body flare up. They parted immediately after, eyes shining with wonder.

"Lírulin..." he whispered breathlessly.

"_Elboron!" _

Lírulin paled, and only then he realized she hadn't said a word. He turned and found Noerwen in the open door of the shed. Judging after the look on her face he didn't need to ask exactly how long she had been standing there.

"Noerwen, I'm sorry..." he began.

"First of all: you are out of bed," she cut him short. "and without my permission, despite a bump on the back on your head that is as big as a hen's egg. Back into the house, _now." _

Elboron decided for a strategic retreat, but he didn't forget to give Lírulin's hand a last, tender squeeze. He hurried past the Healer and heard something between a snort and a sigh, then he stood outside and the door fell closed behind him.

In the shed, the silence stretched between mother and daughter, and finally it was Lírulin who spoke first.

"Let me explain..."

"Believe me, my lark, I've seen nothing that needs to be explained," Noerwen said dryly and smiled when her daughter blushed. "And I would lie if I told you that I was surprised. I won't even ask you if you know what you are doing."

"Thank you," Lírulin replied earnestly.

"Lunch in half an hour," Noerwen said. "There's a beautiful Prince to be fed, and afterwards we'll send him home again healthy and whole." She turned to the door. "If you don't know what to do with your time until he comes back – which will doubtlessly happen very soon – you may fill up the rest of the comfrey salve."

Lírulin made a flourish towards the row of neatly corked and sealed skillets on the table.

"I'm impressed," Noerwen said. "Just store them away, and then join us in the kitchen."

She left the shed and walked over the lawn to the house, and despite many lingering doubts and imponderabilities the shining happiness she had seen in her daughter's eyes warmed her heart.


	7. What is not written in the books

Epilogue  
**What is (not) written in the books**

_Two years later_

Noerwen sat on the bench in front of the house, a bowl of pea pods beside her. It was a mild evening and the sun stood low behind the trees. She was alone; Damrod had left for Minas Tirith, to greet King Éomer and escort him to the wedding of his nephew.

She lifted the bowl into her lap, took a small knife and began to slice the pods open. Her daughter's room on the first floor had been empty for weeks. Right now Lírulin was in Emyn Arnen, patiently going through the last fittings of her spectacular wedding dress. This time it had not been modified with a few stitches and darts, but custom-made, only to be worn on her special day... and perhaps by yet another young woman in the future, if she ever had a daughter.

The preparations for this feast had been at least twice as complicated and exhausting as those for the ball, two years ago. Tomorrow Noerwen would dress in her own, festive robes, and she would spend at least three days in the company of the assembled nobility of Gondor. Lord Angbor of Lamedon was among the guests, by the way, but he had wisely refrained from being accompanied by his wife and daughter. Instead he had promised to bring a dozen bushes from his famous rose garden; they were a special breed, without any thorns.

Noerwen grinned at the thought while her hands found the familiar rhythm, emptying the fresh, green peas into the bowl and flinging the pods into a bucket beside her knee. These were the habits that really formed her life in Middle Earth... caring for those she loved and those in need, healing where she could and sometimes finding the deepest joy in the most simple things.

"_Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo,_ Noerwen," a musical voice said from somewhere close, and she nearly dropped the bowl.

She looked up. Two figures were standing on the lawn; one of them clad in grey and green. He still wore the cloak given to him by Galadriel, nearly thirty years ago. The delicate leaf-shaped brooch shimmered in the warm evening haze, but not as deep and radiant as the light in the Elven prince's eyes, and his face was as youthful as ever.

"Welcome, Lord Legolas!" She reached out and took his slender hands. "And may the blessing of the Valar be with you wherever your path is leading."

"This time it led me to the Glittering Caves," Legolas said with a smile. "Gimli sends you and your daughter his best wishes. He asked me to forward his hope that the rocks beneath your feet shall never shake and the walls of your house never crumble."

"Very uplifting," Noerwen retorted merrily. "I take it that his wondrous realm is still flourishing?"

"It is," Legolas said, "as far as such a thing can be said about a place that is mainly made of stone. Oh, and Noerwen... I brought someone with me who came here to visit our new settlement. He will meet with my lore master after Elboron's wedding, and he asked me if he might see you, too."

Now she finally focused on the other man who was patiently waiting a little apart, obviously not trying to disturb the reunion of two old friends.

"Forgive me." She dropped a polite curtsy. "Every guest of Lord Legolas' is welcome in my house. My name is Noerwen."

He bowed in return. "I'm very pleased, My lady Noerwen," he said. "I have been waiting to meet you for a very long time, and I am very glad that I finally have the chance."

He had a deep, gravelly voice, and and his speech was a little slurred, but not like that of a drunkard; more as if too many words were pushing each other to the fore, and some of them got lost along the way. Under a long, dark cloak with a big hood, he wore comfortable, loose trousers, a shirt with a stand-up collar and a beautiful waistcoat, embroidered with flowers and leaves – _almost like a hobbit,_ Noerwen thought. She studied his face and saw the features of a man steering placidly towards age, his hair more grey than blonde and trimmed unusually short, his eyes bright and humorous under impressive brows. He reminded her strongly of someone, but right now she was at a loss.

"If I may introduce myself?" he said. "In these lands, people know me as the _Pengolodh_. – My lady Noerwen? Are you unwell?"

She stepped back on shaking legs, bumped against the bench and sank down on it.

"I never felt any better," she whispered, "thank you very much. I, too, am glad to meet you. Very glad indeed."

She took a deep, steadying breath.

And please- just call me Noerwen."

vvvvv

She never knew if she rued the fact that Damrod was not at home when the _Pengolodh_ paid her a visit; a part of her fervently wished he could have witnessed such a miraculous meeting of two worlds, another one – much more selfish – simply decided to enjoy and accept it as an incomparable gift. Legolas listened to them for a while, then he excused himself and retired into her gardens – his personal way to shake off the tension of a long journey and to gain new strength.

Given what she knew about her guest and his general intercourse with women, she expected him to be reserved and awkward in her presence, but surprisingly enough he was rather relaxed. Perhaps it was Middle Earth that changed him as much as it had changed her, but he obviously enjoyed her company. She went inside and brought refreshments; bread, homemade cheese, beer and wine. They ate and then sat side by side on the bench until it grew cold and they moved into the house.

He showered her with countless questions, and she answered them as well as she could, awed and thrilled by the fact that she was talking to the chronicler of Arda, and that some details might actually find their way into books yet to be written. She spoke about her time in the Houses of Healing and told him about her life in Ithilien, though she kept the love story with Damrod to herself. Still, he took a friendly interest in her family, especially in Lírulin.

"I have a daughter, too," he said. "She's a wonderful girl; you would like her." He hesitated. "And I wish you could meet my wife."

"That would be lovely," she agreed with a smile. "But first I'd have to return with you into your world and your time... and for me, there is no way back."

It was past midnight when they reached that point; until then, they had silently agreed to avoid the sensitive matter. But now, warmed by company, wine and the rare closeness that had arisen between two strangers in only in a few hours, she finally dared to ask a question she had been mulling over for years.

"Tell me," she said, studying his face in the flickering candlelight. "Is it easier to come here – or to go back?"

For a long while, he was silent. "It depends," he slowly said and made a gesture she had seen a few times before: his hand slipped absentmindedly into his waist-pocket, then he shot her a doubtful gaze and pulled it out again.

"On what?"

"On the circumstances," he replied, frowning slightly. "I love my wife and my family, I'm a scholar, doing the work I always dreamt of doing, but there are moments when I find myself yearning to stay here, under those different stars... just me and the legends this world is able to tell me. Does that make any sense?"

"Absolutely," she said, "but you still have your roots – there. My home is here now. You know, I had to go back for two years, and that was the most miserable time of my life... aside from the fact that the crossing nearly drove me mad."

The_ Pengolodh_ looked at her thoughtfully.

"My fear was never to grow mad," he finally answered. "I was afraid to get lost between the worlds... and sometimes I think I am."

Again his hand slipped into the pocket of the lovely waistcoat – and now it dawned on her.

"Would you do me a favor?" she asked.

He shot her a surprised gaze. "What ever you want," he said with a warm smile. "Especially after this wonderful evening."

"It still _is _wonderful," she replied, reaching out. "Just take your pipe finally out of the pocket and let me stuff it for you. There's a bag of Longbottom Leaf left from Merry Brandybuck's last package."

The impressive eyebrows shot upwards. "How did you know?"

"I should know that gesture by now," she smiled, "from my husband. You see, I'm married to a man who enjoys a pipe now and then... like his King. And like you."

vvvvv

She retired soon after, though it was the last thing she wanted; she would have gladly spent the rest of the night in his company, but she knew that she had to survive a noble wedding the very next day. The _Pengolodh_ politely wrapped himself into his cloak and went outside to sit on the bench again. When she bade him good night, his head was surrounded by an aromatic cloud of pipe smoke.

"Sleep well, Noerwen," he said, "Thank you for your hospitality – and for your candor."

"It was my pleasure and my privilege," she assured him. I would not know anything about this world, if not for you. I owe you more than you'll ever owe me. Sleep well, and if you think you are too tired to wander through the night with an Elven prince, feel free to use my guest room. First floor, last door to the right, and the bed is already made."

Without thinking, Noerwen leaned in and embraced him; after a startled second of hesitation, he did the same, and she felt the short, chaste touch of his lips on her cheek.

She entered the house, closed the door behind her and went upstairs. The curtains were shut, but the window stood open to the cool night air. While she slipped into her night gown, she could still smell the sweet scent of tobacco and hear him speak; he murmured unintelligible fragments in _Sindarin_ and _Quenya. _

Then came something she understood surprisingly clear:_ "In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring..." _and suddenly there was Legolas, too, laughing first, then humming softly and finally singing, with a voice so beautiful that it pierced her heart. _"Ah! The light and the music in the Summer by the Seven Rivers of Ossir!"_

She closed her eyes and slept, and in her dream she walked hand in hand with Damrod under the shadow of Elvish trees with leaves that sighed in the cool breeze, surrounded by the red and golden glory of Autumn.

**FINIS**

**Author's Notes:**

The "settlement" Legolas mentions was founded by himself. He brought Elves from Eryn Lasgalen (Mirkwood) to Ithilien and helped to restore the Garden of Gondor.

The song Legolas sings was first sung by Treebeard in "The Two Towers", when he told Merry and Pippin about his love for the trees. Here is the full text:

_In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring.__  
Ah! the sight and the smell of the Spring in Nan-tasarion!__  
And I said that was good.  
__I wandered in Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand.__  
Ah! the light and the music in the Summer by the Seven Rivers of Ossir!__  
And I thought that was best.__  
To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn.__  
Ah! the gold and the red and the sighing leaves in the Autumn in Taur-na-neldor!  
__It was more than my desire.__  
To the pine-trees upon the highland of Dorthonion I climbed in the Winter.__  
Ah! the wind and the whiteness and the black branches of Winter upon Orod-na-Thôn!__  
My voice went up and sang in the sky.__  
And now all those lands lie under wave.  
__And I walk in Ambaróna, in Tauremorna, in Aldalómë.  
__In my own land, in the country of Fangorn  
__Where the roots are long,  
__And the years lie thicker than the leaves  
In Tauremornalómë._


End file.
